


Haute Allure

by zeitgeistic (faire_weather)



Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: "barebacking", Facials, Fashion & Couture, Humor, M/M, Sexual Content, Thestrals, Veela Draco, Veela Fest, Vegetarians & Vegans
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-02-11
Updated: 2014-02-11
Packaged: 2018-01-18 10:07:10
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 12,445
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1424560
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/faire_weather/pseuds/zeitgeistic
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Harry is famous for his menswear now. Malfoy is the inside leg that he loves running his tape measure up.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Haute Allure

**Author's Note:**

> Includes 1 reference to Mean Girls. I’m not ashamed. This was inspired by London Fashion Week, which starts February 14th! :D
> 
> Thanks to **eidheann** for the beta, with help from **icmezzo** and **traintracks**.
> 
> FOLLOW ME ON TUMBLR for snippets, what I'm working on next, and to ask me anything :) [lol-zeitgeistic on Tumblr](http://lol-zeitgeistic.tumblr.com/)

****“I’m going to have the models fly in on Thestrals,” Luna says, head tilted back as she stares up at the ceiling. “And—there.” She points. “That’s where we’ll put the potion diffuser.”  
  
Harry squints up into the rafters. “I thought we decided against the potion diffuser.”  
  
Luna finally looks back down at him, blinking as her eyes adjust from having stared straight into a row of  _Lumoses_  along the ceiling. “No, you decided that, but then I reminded you that you design the clothes and I design the sets, and then Draco came in for his fitting and we stopped talking about it.”  
  
Harry frowns. “Are you sure the humidity from a potions diffuser won’t affect the drape? What if my suits get wet? Actually, what if it stains them? It’s all silks and pale neutrals this year; there’s no margin of error there.”  
  
Luna is unconcerned. “We could possibly have the diffusers blow up from the floor—like a mysterious mist. In fact, that might work better, as the Amortentia won’t have as far to travel to reach the audience.”  
  
Harry whips around. “Amortentia?”  
  
“We want them to associate your spring/summer line with something they love, obviously.”  
  
“But Amortentia's illegal. And Ron will be there. And  _Hermione_.”  
  
“Already checked,” says Luna. “It’s only illegal if we give it to them to ingest, and we won’t technically be doing that. We’re just using it in our fog diffuser to give the right atmosphere, and if they happen to breathe some in, well, that’s the hazards of Fashion Week.”  
  
“There are plenty of hazards besides,” Harry says, thinking of the final-final fitting he’s going to have to do on Malfoy before the show. He just has to be  _certain_. It doesn’t have anything to do with the fact that he can’t get his best model out of his head—even during Fashion Week when he’s so busy he often forgets his name.  
  
“So it’s decided,” Luna says, making several notes in a non-English—perhaps non-human—language in her notebook. “The Amortentia diffusers along the edge of the stage where the Thestrals will circle about, oh, roughly three feet from the ground, before landing. We’ll have the boys astride for the menswear and side-saddle for loungewear. It will give it a sexy, androgynous feel, especially for those wearing just the dressing gowns. We’ll have them lean back against the Thestrals’ necks and spread their legs a bit, and…”  
  
Harry stops listening, already having decided that Malfoy will be wearing one of the dressing gowns. He’d originally had him slated for a pair of incandescent silk sleeping boxers and nothing else, but he rather fancies seeing his new dressing gown line put to better use. Now that he sees that there  _is_  a better use.  
  
“I want the grey lights,” Harry says, returning to the matter at hand. “And are you even going to have time for the diffuser? We’ve Rehearsal in six hours.”  
  
“Mm,” Luna agrees. “The grey beneath the diffusers. It’ll refract so enigmatically.”  
  
Harry is beyond arguing about the Amortentia by this point. It occurs to him that he cannot recall having ever won a single discussion against Luna before, and the stuff wears off in twenty-four hours anyway. Better to just pretend like it’s not happening and hope Hermione doesn’t connect the dots when she smells grass and toothpaste at his show. He sighs. He’s already been up for eight hours and it’s only noon. There’s supposed to be lunch sometime today but he can’t fathom when that magical event might occur.  
  
Such is Fashion Week.  
  
He’s tired and hungry and tonight he’s got to watch Malfoy fly in on a Thestral in a dressing gown and little else. He can hardly function as it is when Malfoy's around, and for some reason he’s decided to make it worse by putting him in his sexiest designs of the season. Why does he do this to himself? It’s not the first time, and, if Harry's honest with himself, it won’t be the last. There’s always been something about Malfoy that makes Harry’s common sense fly out the window.  
  
He checks his watch again, frowning at the way time seems to be disappearing. What he wouldn’t give for a Time Turner. He has another twelve hours before he can even think about a nap, and they really need to finalise this set design before he leaves to meet with his makeup and hair artists.  
  
“We need to pick the music,” says Harry, who often saves these important decisions for two days before his shows. It is a character flaw he acknowledges in himself but can’t be arsed to do much about.  _Magical Vogue_ calls it ‘chic lack of forethought’. Harry calls it ‘indecision and laziness’.  
  
“Oh, good. I’d worried you might decide to have it completely silent since you’ve ignored all my memos on the subject. At this late stage, we’ll have to pay a premium if you want a band,” Luna says. She’s eyeing the ceiling again, and Harry really hopes she’s not looking for a way to squeeze in an extra potion diffuser.  
  
He says, “I’m not booking a band again this year. The last one was more precious than Malfoy in high dudgeon.”  
  
“I’ve an idea then,” Luna says. “I found a troupe of waterphoners. They sound like a swamp echoing.”  
  
“Love it,” Harry says. Echoing swamp is exactly what he’s going for. Well, actually, ‘just-fucked executive’ is exactly what he’s going for, but he’s a fashion designer, and therefore eccentric, so he can do what he wants. And what he wants, right now, is to get this over with so he can double check the hem on Malfoy’s waistcoat.  
  
Luna beams at him. “Okily dokily. I’ll book them right away. I think they’ll be lovely with these acoustics.”  
  
Harry’s not much of one for acoustics, but Luna’s never steered him wrong before and he pays her to care when he doesn’t, so he leaves her to it. He snatches up his knapsack and tosses it over his shoulder. Ivan Abbott opens the door for him as he approaches, as if Harry can’t fucking handle a doorknob on his own. He passes through without a nod. If Abbott strives to be a doorman instead of an intern then Harry is happy to oblige him.  
  
  


  
-x-

  
  
  
“Eh,” says Dean, one hand on his chin as he surveys the spelled-blond model before them. Dean’s plum lipstick is a little faded right now but looks otherwise fierce. Harry purses his lips. He really wishes he could pull off plum, but only fig seems to suit him and he hates fig so he goes without in protest. “I liked it better with the pewter eyeliner and the silver blusher.”  
  
Harry tends to agree. “For the blonds,” he says. “But I liked the steel liner on that new brunet—Marco? You already did everyone else? I want to see them.”  
  
Dean nods and turns to his show diary to find his notes on them. He flips through a few pages and stops. A 3x5 photograph of an attractive man going through a series of facial poses is spellotaped to the top. “Various variations on a theme, Harry. Most are cool tones—I’ve got Oscar in gold-gold and...” He flips a few more pages. “...Akiko in gold liner and glonde blusher.”  
  
“What the fuck is glonde?” asks the model.  
  
Harry and Dean give him identical looks of disdain. “It’s what you are,” Dean says to him. He puts his hand on his chin and purses his lips. “And it looks fake. I’ve decided you can’t be in the show with that colour hair. It doesn’t suit your complexion at all. Spell it back to ginger before Rehearsal.”  
  
“You’re letting Akiko wear glonde,” the model says, pouting.  
  
“It suits him,” says Harry, who’s already shuffling his models around in his head so that he has as many as possible of his warm tone models in some form of glonde. “What about on deeper skin tones?” asks Harry of Dean.  
  
“Ahh,” Dean says. He shoos the blond one away and calls over one of their veterans, Rashad. Rashad takes the vacated stool and submits to Harry and Dean’s scrutiny of his makeup. “Platinum liner and silver blusher. Rashad’s eyelashes are thrilling, so I continued the platinum there as well instead of doing a black mascara.”  
  
“Love it,” Harry decides.  
  
Rashad is dismissed and Dean brings over Emmanuel, Jose-Magia, Claudiu, and Quentin one by one for Harry’s approval, displaying each of the variations on Dean’s makeup schematic. Harry loves them all. Dean’s eye for colour and design is unsurpassed, something which Harry is always a bit smug about during Fashion Week. He never says it aloud, of course, but he has the best makeup artist in the industry, full stop.  
  
Makeup approved, Harry’s day’s now that much closer to being over. Just one more stop—to Lavender and Pansy for hair approval, and then he’s done until Rehearsal. He’s got Ron on hold, waiting for lunch. He could be out of here in twenty minutes.  
  
But he can’t help asking one final question of Dean. “What are you doing on Malfoy?”  
  
Dean’s already back to working on an auburn-haired model with a rakish set to his eyebrows. He doesn’t turn around to say, “White liner, white blusher. Shimmery, though.”  
  
“Mascara?” asks Harry, gathering up his knapsack, water bottle, and hat.  
  
“White,” Dean says. “Tried black and grey but they were both shit. He’s thrilling in white, though. Like a fucking Veela.”  
  
Harry pauses on his way to the door. “A Veela?”  
  
He hears Dean laughing somewhere behind him. “God, yes, look at that fucking hair of his. Skin so pale and perfect it blinds me. Thrilling to work on, but still a precious little git.”  
  
Harry’s heart is hammering so fast he thinks it might burst out of his ribs. It suddenly feels as if everything in the world has just flipped.  
  
If Malfoy’s a Veela, is that why Harry’s been unable to stop thinking of him for seven ruddy years? Harry feels all the blood rush away from his limbs with a sudden burst of shock; it’s a flight response he hasn’t felt since the war—but if Malfoy’s a Veela…  
  
If Malfoy’s a Veela, then Harry’s never stood a chance against him. All these horrible, desperate nights he’s spent wishing Malfoy was his were just the product of synthetic lust. He feels cold and ravaged and a little bit terrified.  
  
  


  
-x-

  
  
  
It doesn’t matter how many lighting effects there are. It doesn’t matter if they’re electric- or spell-made. Nor how elaborate his show set design is or how fit the other models are or how many Thestrals are flying around; Harry always knows where Draco Malfoy’s going to be. It’s like a seventh sense (the sixth being how to avoid dying), or maybe it used to be, during those ageless, innocent years when Harry thought he was just pining and not overwhelmed by magic. He gets a feeling whenever he’s about to walk through a door and Malfoy’s on the other side. He just  _knows_.  
  
He’s always just thought it was a feeling, like prickles on your neck when someone’s been staring at you, but now—now he  _wonders_. He doesn’t know if it means that the attraction is less real or more. He doesn’t know if he should give in or give up. He does know one thing:  
  
Right now, Harry knows that Draco Malfoy is sitting in front of Lavender’s mirror, having his white-blond hair styled into something ‘masculine, yet swampy and mysterious—it’ll be fetch, Harry.’  
  
Harry has no idea what that will be like; he just makes the clothes. Hair is still very much a mystery to him. Even more so now that, unfortunately, bad hair seems to have become something of a trend. Twice now, he’s had to talk Lavender and Pansy down from styling all his models with ‘the Harry Potter.’  
  
He doesn’t know that he can deal with seeing Malfoy so soon after Dean’s comment. He feels distinctly unsettled—and, weirdly, aroused, although that’s probably a relic of how he normally feels around Malfoy. So he turns away from the door and Malfoy on the other side of it. He’ll deal with hair approvals after lunch and so sends his Patronus off to Ron.  
  
Now he’s nursing a soy-mocha-frap-double-shot in some swank little cafe in Diagon while Ron chews forlornly on a stick of celery with hummus. He crunches several times, eyeing Harry’s frap so desperately that Harry gives in and slides it over to him, even though he knows Hermione would be irritated. Ron snatches it up, takes a long slurp from the straw and leans back, eyes closed, a smile pasted to his face.  
  
“You’re my hero, Harry. Hermione’s being an absolute beast about my sugar intake. I  _really_ needed a fix. But I’m not so sure about the soy. You should’ve gone for the good stuff.”  
  
“They’re out of coconut milk,” Harry says, not without disappointment.  
  
Ron nods in understanding. “I miss that shit.” Harry takes a moment to feel sorry for him. Hermione’s pregnant with their first and can smell coconut on Ron’s breath from the other side of a warded door.  
  
“Five more months,” Harry says. He isn’t very good at being comforting.  
  
“Yeah.” Ron picks up another celery stick and dunks it in his hummus. He munches on it, staring thoughtfully out the window at the people passing by. The Alley’s busy this week, all the shopkeepers rushing around for Wizarding Fashion Week which started the day before. Harry’s already exhausted and he’s just going to have to do it all over again in a fortnight when London Fashion Week begins.  
  
“Morning sickness should stop soon and then the first thing I’m going to do is eat an entire fucking eggless-German Chocolate cake.”  
  
There’s a kid outside eating fish and chips on a bench and Harry wonders why he’d ever let Ron talk the three of them into going vegan. It’s going on eight years now, but fish and chips never stops looking delicious to Harry.  
  
Ron'd come home from a particularly bad case not long after making full Auror, covered in the blood and other stuff of his former partner. Harry remembers because he’d been sitting on their couch with Hermione, fixing the hem on one of his jumpers while they watched Gordon Ramsay bitching on the telly. Ron had walked straight passed them into the kitchen and Vanished everything in the icebox that had even touched another living thing. None of them have eaten animal products since that day because Harry and Hermione were stupid enough to promise when Ron, pale-faced and hysterical, begged them not to.  
  
“Ron,” Harry says, “I think my model’s a Veela.”  
  
“Which model?”  
  
“Malfoy.”  
  
Ron nods sagely. “He’s got the look of it.”  
  
This isn’t comforting. He was hoping for something a little more...Weasley. With all the righteous indignation and histrionics that would’ve helped Harry move past being attracted to Malfoy because of some stupid Veela magic.  
  
Is it better or worse than forced Amortentia, he wonders.  
  
“It’s good for publicity, though, isn’t it?” says Ron, turning back to him. “Malfoy's popular in your shows and if it comes out he’s a Veela, it’s just going to make them all want to wear what he wears even more. You know, like transference of sexual appeal. They’ll love your autumn/winter collection.”  
  
“They’ll love it anyway,” Harry says absently. Ron snorts and Harry gives him a wry, unapologetic look. This collection is good. Even Harry likes it. Loves it even. “But that’s not it,” he adds. “I don’t think anyone notices it but me. He doesn’t use his…allure or whatever on anyone but me.”  
  
Ron’s eyebrows go up. “Like how Fleur does to Bill?”  
  
Harry nods, grimacing. He swallows, grows a pair, and finally gives voice to the one thought he hasn’t been able to shake since he heard Dean make that comment. “You think that means I’m his Mate?”  
  
Ron slumps back in his chair, whistling faintly. “I dunno, Harry. But thinking on it, that’s what Veelas do to rope ‘em in, isn’t it?”  
  
Harry shrugs. “Guess so. Fleur's the only Veela I know.”  
  
“What are you going to do about it?” asks Ron, ever pragmatic. He’s already accepted the heinous truth that Malfoy is a Veela and Harry probably his Mate and is moving on to what happens next.  
  
What happens next, in Harry’s considered opinion, is vigorous and copious mating. He wonders if he should have sex with Malfoy before the show to give him a  _real_  ‘just fucked’ look. Maybe he should ask all of his models to go out and have a shag after Rehearsal…  
  
_No, that’s sleazy_ , he decides. He can’t control their sex lives.  
  
Although, he’d let Malfoy control  _his_. All that silvery-blond hair and those sharp features. Harry already has inspiration for his next winter line and it’s Draco Malfoy’s sodding cheekbones. He sketches up a new breed of geometric parkas in his head, mentally putting Malfoy in all of them, watching him strut towards him with that aloof-middle-distance gaze, pause, pivot, walk away.  
  
Merlin, does Harry like watching Malfoy walk away.  
  
“You think I should shag him?” asks Harry.  
  
Ron gives him a horrified look. “What? No! Well—I mean, I guess if you want to. Does being Malfoy’s Mate mean you’re also attracted to him? Or just when he’s using the allure?”  
  
“I think he’s  _always_  using the allure.”  
  
Ron rolls his eyes. “Malfoy  _would_.”  
  
“But shagging?”  
  
Ron considers. “I think that’s what you do to seal the bond, isn’t it? The Veela-Mate bond? That’s what Bill said, maybe. I’m not entirely sure and I usually ignore him anyway when he’s talking about sex. Give it a shot. Can’t hurt anything, right?”  
  
Harry sucks on his mocha frap again, chewing on the straw a bit in a bad habit that Hermione still hasn’t broken him of. Ron’s logic is pretty sound. “You’re right. If I shag him, it’ll either get it out of my system or show him that I accept being his Mate.”  
  
“You do?” Ron asks.  
  
“Well, yeah. Why not? He’s fit and he never models for anyone but me. That’s got to mean something, right?”  
  
Ron shakes his head. “Harry, you’ve got it so bad.”  
  
Harry scowls. How can he help it? If he’s Malfoy’s Mate, it’s not like he has any  _control_ over the matter. All that  _biology_  to contend with. He might as well be under a love potion. If he just accepts it and moves on with his life he’ll be happier in the long run.  
  
Outside, a woman screams, and Harry makes the mistake of turning to see what’s wrong. Nothing’s wrong, as it happens. He’s just been spotted again. It’s always bad during Fashion Week. Everyone wants to be a model. He doesn’t  _do_  womenswear for Merlin’s sake.  
  
He groans, pulling his cap lower over his face and leaning his back against the window as much as possible. Bugger it all; he’s still got to do hair approvals.  
  
  


  
-x-

  
  
  
“Hello, Potter,” drawls Malfoy from his perch. He’s sitting stiffly, as Lavender’s pulling his hair one way and Pansy the other while Dean crouches before him, painting shimmery white speckles over his naked chest. “My favourite twat in a hat.”  
  
Harry tips said hat in Malfoy’s direction but keeps his lips pressed firmly together, afraid of what he might blurt out if he opens his mouth. Things like,  _I’m your Mate_ and _Can we fuck?_  He stops next to Dean, eyes transfixed on a shimmery speckle above Malfoy’s right areola. It shifts whenever he flexes to get more comfortable.  
  
No one calls him Potter anymore. He made the mistake of wanting to separate himself from the Boy Who Lived when he started his first line, so he’d opened his fashion house under only the name ‘Harry’. Now everyone calls him Harry. Sometimes Mr Harry if they’re especially socially awkward. No one calls him Potter. Except Malfoy.  
  
It gives him a bit of a halfie. He sometimes forgets what it’s like to hear his last name—and when Malfoy says it, it’s…special. Hot.  
  
Harry takes a moment to evaluate himself. His heart’s beating like mad and his breathing’s shallow and rushed. He feels hot all over. His gut is clenched, and he can practically  _feel_  the endorphins zooming through his veins as he takes in the sight of Malfoy. Malfoy is...utterly perfect. An utterly perfect Veela. Why hasn’t Malfoy made a move on him yet? Is he playing coy? That’s just like a Veela. And Malfoy.  
  
Marietta slopes in with the glonde-coloured suit originally slated for Malfoy. Having seen Dean’s final makeup decisions before lunch though, Harry shakes his head. Malfoy’s cool-toned, and it was only Harry projecting that he was best-looking in gold. Because Malfoy’s expensive like that, even in personality. But platinum is cool, too, and much more precious. Like Malfoy, who’s also more precious than gold.  
  
Harry stops himself there because he’s getting ridiculous and he’s embarrassed of himself in his own head.  
  
Marietta retreats and returns a moment later with the white moiré silk suit instead. Sometimes she can almost read his mind. He thinks maybe next season he’ll let her design some of the loungewear and see what she comes up with. She’s good at spotting trends—helped along, no doubt, by her nickname in the mags: Marietta Trend ‘Spotter’. People like that name; it makes them feel comfortable wearing eight foot tangerine scarves looped around their necks in the spring and spots on their forehead spelling out crude words.  
  
The name isn’t that original but it’s fitting since she still has spots on her forehead.  
  
Hermione’s offered to remove them a dozen times but Marietta's learned that she can Charm them to say something different—even if she can’t Charm them away entirely—and she really doesn’t like to admit to Hermione that she can’t figure it out.  
  
Right now they say BITCH and Marietta accents them with plum-coloured speckles over top. It’s a trend that’s been going in and out of style for the past seven years, but truly no one wears it as well as Marietta. It’s like Marc Jacobs in skirts. It just isn’t done well unless it’s done by Marietta.  
  
“He’s going to be very…white,” Marietta observes.  
  
Harry nods. He licks his lip, then glances at Malfoy to watch his face as he next says, “Like a Veela.”  
  
As he half-expects, Malfoy tenses. Their eyes meet and hold, and then Malfoy looks away, saying nothing, like a good model. He isn’t here for his opinion, after all.  
  
“Is Veela the theme you want to portray? I thought we were going for something more…” She waves her hand vaguely, searching. “Swampy chic.”  
  
“Just-fucked executive,” Harry corrects absently. He considers Malfoy in the three-piece watered-silk suit. “Basically the same thing, though. And Veelas can look swampy and just-fucked. Take off the jacket. I want him in just the trousers and waistcoat.”  
  
Malfoy shrugs off the jacket. Marietta swoops in to adjust the waistcoat, popping open the bottom two buttons so that his midriff shows when he moves. She tugs lightly on his trousers so that the top of a patch of white-gold hair peeks out.  
  
“More just-fucked?” she asks, swiping a lock of russet hair away from her forehead as she looks up at him. TCH shows through in plum-coloured dots.  
  
_Yes, please,_  thinks Harry. Maybe even some actual just-fucked to go along with it. Preferably by Harry.  _Only_  by Harry, actually. Harry considers the finished product. “Love it.”  
  
“Grand,” Marietta agrees.  
  
“Thrilling,” Dean adds.  
  
“Totally fetch,” says Lavender.  
  
“Fine,” Pansy says, sighing. She always sighs.  
  
Malfoy says nothing, because he’s the model.  
  
They all retreat, moving on to the next model while Harry takes in Malfoy’s appearance in Harry’s favourite design of the collection. All that’s left now is for Harry to finalise the fit. He makes a few adjustments on the snugness of the waistcoat and decides he likes the buttons better in silver before he moves down to the trousers. They’re a bit loose at the hips, but Harry finds that he likes the effect, so he leaves them as is.  
  
The door closes as they prepare to begin the Rehearsal and the silence it leaves behind echoes around Harry and Malfoy. He just needs to check the hem. Again.  
  
Harry crouches down, whipping his measuring tape from around his neck and running it up Malfoy’s inside leg. Everything looks to be in order but perhaps he could take it in another eighth of an inch since they’re being worn so low. It’s getting late now. He can hear Luna and Marietta lining the models up with their Thestrals and in the background, Ivan’s probably holding a door.  
  
“You dress me like I’m your fantasy, Potter,” Malfoy says. Harry freezes with his tape measure only inches from the top of Malfoy’s inseam. He looks up, but Malfoy’s staring fixedly ahead.  
  
“What?” says Harry, and hates himself for the way his voice croaks.  
  
“You don’t do that to the other models,” Malfoy continues, still looking straight ahead. He has a perfect model gaze: aloof and always focused on the middle distance. “No one else’s pubes are going to be showing tomorrow.”  
  
Harry frowns. “The theme of the collection is just-fucked—”  
  
“I know what the theme is, Potter. I’ve been sitting here the whole time, after all. I’m just saying, you’ve got Rashad in the same trousers and his are snug all around. Mine wouldn’t hold up to a strong breeze.”  
  
“I’m just showing the different ways the trouser can be worn.”  
  
Malfoy says nothing.  
  
Harry takes a deep, steadying breath and returns to his measuring tape. His wrist brushes the inside of Malfoy’s thigh, and Malfoy jumps, nearly stumbling backwards. Harry grabs hold of his leg to steady him and Malfoy’s hand curls around Harry’s head. He sways and Harry’s face comes within inches of his cock. It’s a very promising position.  
  
Malfoy steadies. Harry stares at his cock, hidden beneath the loose fit of his silk trousers. It isn’t like he’s never seen the bulge of Malfoy’s package before—he’s been dressing him for seven years, after all. It’s just that he’s never seen it so close to his mouth; he’s never seen it beneath thin, watery silk; he’s never seen it after learning that Malfoy is a Veela. If there’s ever a time for Malfoy to declare his intention to Veela bond with him or whatever, now’s it.  
  
Harry’s cock twitches. He can’t look away. He exhales heavily, can feel his pulse speeding up.  
  
Abruptly, Malfoy steps back to a more professional distance—a distance that is still obscenely close in other industries. Harry has to make sure his cock is hanging well, after all, and he can’t do that from a distance.  
  
And then he notices that—well, Harry  _knows_ Malfoy’s package; he knows the way it bulges because he’s had to dress around it for years now. And it’s not laying like it normally does. Malfoy is  _hard_. And they’re just standing there—well, crouching in Harry’s case—like it’s perfectly normal and unremarkable that Harry is on his knees for Malfoy and Malfoy’s aroused.  
  
_Fuuuck_ , thinks Harry.  
  
He looks up, swallowing. Malfoy’s staring into the middle distance, aloof. Fucking Veelas.  
  
“Malfoy,” says Harry, clearing his throat. Malfoy looks down at him with that same flat, aristocratic expression—if Malfoy doesn’t react like anything’s wrong, then nothing’s wrong. It’s how posh people work. Harry knows; he sells them clothes.  
  
“What?”  
  
“You’re ruining the line of my trousers,” Harry says. “Take care of it.”  
  
He expects Malfoy to pull out a picture of his Mum or Ron or something—anything to kill an erection. Instead, what he gets is Malfoy’s long, pale fingers popping open the button. Harry stares, transfixed, as Malfoy takes hold of the gold zip and slowly tugs it down. The sound echoes in the room. It stops. Malfoy pushes the fly aside, and his cock springs out. Harry doesn’t allow underpants in his shows. It ruins the line.  
  
Like Malfoy’s erection, which is currently inches from Harry’s face. “What the fuck, Malfoy?” he says, but it comes out entirely more breathy than he meant for it.  
  
“I’m taking care of it,” Malfoy says, wrapping his fingers around the shaft and slowly pulling.  
  
“You’re wanking,” says Harry, and he does have the presence of mind to glare up at Malfoy now, but it’s ruined when their eyes meet because Malfoy’s gaze is pure fuck-me. Pupils blown so wide the grey is missing entirely, mouth parted, lips slick with spit.  
  
“Yes,” Malfoy agrees, and his voice is low and raspy and sounds exactly like every single fantasy Harry’s ever had, for, basically, the past decade. He’s still on the floor in front of Malfoy’s cock. He can’t even move. If he doesn’t, Malfoy’s going to come all over him. He should move. He shouldn’t let Malfoy come all over him.  
  
He doesn’t move.  
  
Instead, he licks his lips and says, “What are you thinking of?”  
  
Malfoy gasps a little laugh, and his wanking speeds up. Harry watches the little white speckles painted on his chest shimmer with every muscle contraction as he jerks his cock. “Coming on your mouth,” says Malfoy, ever the fucking shameless aristocrat.  
  
Harry’s eyes sink closed.  
  
Malfoy starts making breathy little whines and his thighs are trembling beneath the silk. He’s close. Very close. And Merlin, how is Harry ever going to dress the bloody ponce again after this?  
  
“Don’t you dare spunk on my trousers, Malfoy,” Harry warns.  
  
Malfoy smirks at him, or tries to, anyway—it’s too debauched to be a proper one. He throws his head back, gasping for breath. His cheeks are pink and Harry knows he’s going to have to cast a cooling spell on him to get the colour down before he has to walk out for Rehearsal. But he doesn’t care. He sits there, on his knees, and he waits.  
  
“Last chance to move, Potter,” Malfoy grits out between his teeth.  
  
“Hurry up,” Harry says instead. “Rehearsal’s starting and you’ve got to mount a Thestral.”  
  
He doesn’t even have time to rethink the wording before Malfoy’s tensing up and whining low in his throat. The first burst of come lands on Harry’s cheek and he belatedly remembers to close his eyes. Malfoy’s gasping and covering Harry’s lips and chin with hot strings of come, and it is without doubt the hottest fucking thing he’s ever experienced in his entire life. He melts into it, feeling warm and aroused and like he needs to be fucked _right now._  
  
Malfoy’s orgasm subsides, but Harry remains for a half second longer, basking in the feel of his Mate’s come on his face. He opens his eyes to find Malfoy staring back down at him. The smirk is entirely gone. His pupils are only a little smaller.  
  
He’s  _still_ aroused even if his body’s currently dictating a refractory period.  
  
Harry licks his lip, and Malfoy’s come is there. It’s delicious and Harry really, really, really hopes that this doesn’t violate his vegan lifestyle because he definitely wants to keep eating it.  
  
Malfoy waves his wand—even though Harry’s told him a million times not to wear it in his shows; he does anyway, usually on a strap on his arm that Harry begrudgingly spells to match—and cleans them both up. He tucks himself back in, zips and buttons up the trousers, and exhales.  
  
Harry finalizes the hem (finally) and stands.  
  
“I dress to the left, too,” Harry says. He aims for ‘casual,’ but it probably comes off ‘weird’ instead.  
  
Malfoy looks at him, amused. “I think most of us do, Potter.”  
  
Harry nods. He can still feel the ghostly presence of Malfoy’s come on his face, even if it’s all been Vanished away. He wants to feel it again.  
  
“You look good in my clothes.”  
  
They’re eye to eye now, and Harry can see the faint flush diffusing Malfoy’s cheeks. He wonders what Malfoy smells when he sniffs Amortentia.  
  
“I know,” Malfoy says quietly. It should sound cocky and smug and git-ish, and, well, it does.  
  
But it also sounds like Malfoy’s trying to tell him something else with the words. Like there’s another meaning hidden underneath. It sounds like,  _I look good in your life_.  
  
  


  
-x-

  
  
  
The first thing Harry does when he gets home that night is wank off in his kitchen.  
  
It’s not his usual thing, but he’s been fully cocked for five hours and he’s afraid his bollocks might fall off if he doesn’t empty them. So he does—in great quantity, on his kitchen table, just inside the door to his flat.  
  
He sets the mail down on the counter when he’s done, goes to the icebox to pull out a jug of pomegranate juice, chugs straight from the glass, puts it back, and then spells away the jizz from his table. Where the fuck is his Crup, he wonders. Hermione comes by to feed her and let her out during the Seasons, but it doesn’t mean the little shit won’t start in on Harry’s loafers if she gets bored enough.  
  
“Ronnie!” he calls, and immediately hears feet scrabbling on the fucking parquet floors. She rushes in from the direction of his bedroom, both tails wagging at full speed. She jumps up to put her front paws on his shoulders and one day he’s really going to have a word with Hagrid about how big Crups  _really_ get. An Irish Wolfhound would’ve been smaller.  
  
Ron hates that Harry’s named his Crup after him, but she’s ginger and Harry was drunk at the time and pissed off about having to be vegan, so whatever. He takes her lead from her mouth and snaps it onto her collar. They head out the front door and down the steps. He doesn’t worry about Muggles seeing her anymore because her tails wag so fast when she meets people that it’s easy to think it’s just a trick of the eye, and also, the only people out now are drunk.  
  
They head down the road, Ronnie sniffing at everything that she sniffed at yesterday, pissing on things she pissed on yesterday, and Harry lets himself get lost in his mind for a bit. It’s the first moment he’s had to himself all day and he’s exhausted.  
  
He tries to remember if he really let Malfoy come on his face or if that was just a fantasy brought on by watching him dismount a Thestral in nothing but loose trousers and a waistcoat before walking through Amortentia with that look on his face like he couldn’t think of anything more boring in the entire world than what he was doing then.  
  
Ronnie stops to piss so Harry waits, gazing off into the middle distance and wondering if he could ever look half as sexy as Malfoy does when he’s in Harry’s trousers. He wonders if he was claimed tonight or if it takes penetrative sex. He feels raw and feral but not particularly  _claimed_. And he wants to feel claimed. He’s wanted Malfoy for entirely too long to give up on him just because it’s Veela-induced.  
  
It’s been years since he’s been in the same room as Malfoy without wanting to be fucked. So what that it’s not exactly a natural urge? So what if it’s magic making him? It’s not going to go away; he might as well enjoy it.  
  
Ronnie tugs on her lead again, and they continue their walk. By the time they get home again, it’s well after two, and Harry’s got to be back in at seven. His show is tomorrow. It’s probably not the most practical time to court a Veela, but Harry’s never been one for doing what’s easy.  
  


  
-x-

****  
The Thestrals are invisible to most people, thank Merlin. Well, actually, Harry doesn’t give a fuck. Whether or not people see Thestrals stopped being his problem ten years ago. If they’re invisible, then more of his collection will be visible; if they aren’t, then at least they coordinate well.  
  
He’s standing in the wings with Luna and Marietta, watching the models fly slowly in, circling the stage once before descending and dismounting in one fluid motion. The Thestrals walk beside them for three paces and then alight again, leaving Harry’s models to circle the stage alone and unobstructed. The waterphoners are somewhere off to the side playing music that sounds exactly like a swamp to Harry. The Amortentia is getting into his nose and all he can smell is come and silk and coffee and whatever shit Pansy and Lavender put in the models’ hair to make it so unnaturally immovable.  
  
He’s had a vague hope all day that he would smell Mrs Weasley’s cooking or mocha fraps or smog or something, but no, it turns out he’s in love with Malfoy. Harry supposes that’s a good thing since they’re Mates.  
  
“It’s grand,” Marietta murmurs as Rashad is dismounting.  
  
“The morning coat or the scenery?” Harry asks.  
  
“Both,” Marietta decides. Rashad does wear a morning coat well.  
  
Luna sighs. “I love this song.”  
  
“I love this collection,” Dean says, coming up behind with Lavender and Pansy. “It’s thrilling. Your best yet, Harry.”  
  
“Cheers,” Harry murmurs. He’s counting down the models and number thirty-one just entered. Number forty is Malfoy. Harry’s as tense as whatever strings make that swamp music. If they have strings, anyway.  
  
Then his last model flies in. His best model. Malfoy circles the air on his black Thestral, descends, and dismounts gracefully, even as the Thestral maintains a murky-looking trot. He presses a hand to the beast’s shoulder and they walk together with the same sultry, watery stride. The Thestral lifts its wings and beats once—the wind doesn’t touch Malfoy’s hair, but the loose silk trousers flutter and he ignores it completely, a perfect model. He walks on, his feet disappearing into the foggy carpet of Amortentia. It flutters out as he walks through it and it looks like he’s walking on water. Harry would probably believe it at this point because he’s not entirely sure what Veelas are capable of.  
  
All he sees is Draco bloody Malfoy and he might very well die if Malfoy doesn’t claim him.  
  
Malfoy makes it to the end of the circular catwalk and disappears backstage. There’s a moment of elaborate waterphoning and then the models start riding out the loungewear collection, this time on the ground. The first model is the erstwhile glonde that Dean had taken such exception to.  
  
“Much better with red hair,” says Dean. “He needs to work on that gaze though. Looks as nervous as a fawn.”  
  
“You try modelling and see how nervous you are,” Lavender says.  
  
“It’s his first time,” Marietta says. “He’s doing okay.”  
  
The loungewear collection is proceeding apace, so Harry takes a moment to observe the audience. He wants to know what they think of his collection. He spots Ron’s bright red head in the front row, and next to him Hermione’s wearing a frock Harry made exclusively for her. He’s rubbish at womenswear so he never even bothers with it except for Hermione. She gives him designs and he’s happy to sew them up to her exacting specifications. It lands her on the cover of  _Witch Weekly_  every now and then, which she pretends to be exasperated about.  
  
The Amortentia’s seeped into the audience. It’s crawling its way back, covering feet and designer handbags. Harry sees dreamy looks on a number of faces. Judging by their narrowed eyes, Ron and Hermione have figured it all out, but they’re riveted to the slow parade of models on Thestrals so that’s a good sign.  
  
The final Thestral enters the ringed catwalk and everything in Harry’s body untenses; it’s got to be the billions of little pheromones let off by Malfoy’s allure. There’s really no other explanation for how  _raw_ and  _aroused_ Harry’s feeling as he catches sight of him. Malfoy is reclined against the Thestral’s neck, one foot propped up on its rump, the other leg hanging artfully off the side. He’s got an arm wrapped back around the Thestral’s neck.  
  
He looks precisely as he would if Harry were fucking him against the wall and Malfoy were reaching back to hold him there, right as he turns his face to kiss Harry fiercely.  
  
Harry looks a little closer and notices something off about the silken dressing gown Malfoy’s modelling. It’s falling open almost indecently. The line isn’t quite right. There’s— _fuuuck_. He’s  _hard_. He’s  _really_ hard.  
  
Harry gapes. Hasn’t he warned Malfoy about this already?  
  
Somehow, Harry makes himself look up from Malfoy’s crotch. Malfoy’s middle-distance gaze isn’t on the middle distance at all. He’s staring straight at Harry and he doesn’t look just-shagged; he looks  _ready-to-be_ -shagged.  
  
Harry is pretty sure he dies of lust in that moment.  
  
When Malfoy’s Thestral completes its circuit, the music dies down and the lights descend. It takes Harry a moment and a sharp elbow from Luna to remember that he’s got to go out there.  
  
He walks out onto the catwalk, his legs a little shaky. The lights raise enough to illuminate him. He thinks maybe he should develop one of those signature designer moves, like doing a cartwheel, but he can’t be arsed right now and these trousers weren’t meant for acrobatics besides. Instead he stops in the middle of the stage, waves tersely, doffs his hat, and bows.  
  
The audience roars. It’s the loudest he’s ever heard them. For a moment, he’s confused. What the hell are they so excited about? But he loves this collection, too.  
  
The models start streaming out behind him, walking briskly around the catwalk so the editorialists can get a few more snaps of his designs. He knows the very moment that Malfoy walks out in his boxers and open dressing gown, with his little white sparkles catching the low light and his fucking hard-on pressing against the soft silk fabric, because the roar of the crowd grows, impossibly, even louder.  
  
Harry bows twice more and leaves the stage as quickly as he entered it. Malfoy has just sold ten-thousand overpriced dressing gowns for Harry. The little shit.  
  
He wonders if it’s bad form to ask all of his models to have an erection for the show in Muggle London next week.  
  
  


-x-

  
  
The after party’s at a new boutique hotel in Diagon. Everything’s blue and purple underlighting and stark, black marble. Harry isn’t overly impressed with the scheme but Luna handles all this stuff and it’s more important that he doesn’t have to deal with it than it is he like the place.  
  
Reporters are all over him as soon as he walks in.  
  
“Harry!” calls a familiar voice.  
  
Harry turns, gives Dennis a rare smile. He’s one of the only ones Harry will give a quote to. “Alright, Dennis?”  
  
Dennis beams at him. “Harry’s New Line of Mens’ Ready-to-Fuck Unveiled,” he says. “Get it? Like ready-to-wear, but fuck instead. That’s what I’m titling my article for  _Wiz GQ_. What do you think?”  
  
“It was supposed to be  _just_ -fucked executive,” Harry says, sighing. He’s not really all that bothered, though.  
  
Dennis grins. “Tell that to Draco Malfoy. He was gagging for another round.”  
  
At the sound of his name, Harry’s skin tingles all over. He feels a little itchy, like Malfoy’s magic is calling him over. Suddenly, he’s not in the mood to mess about with Dennis any longer. He forces a smile. Gotta be good to the press, he reminds himself. They keep him in business. “Did you like the clothes though?”  
  
Dennis throws his head back, laughing uproariously. It’s almost loud enough to drown out the rest of the party. “Did I like the clothes, he says!”  
  
“Well that was the point of the show,” Harry reminds him.  
  
Dennis subsides, wiping his eyes. It wasn’t even that funny. He pulls a quill from behind his ear and sets it hovering over his notepad. “Harry, it was inspired.  _Inspired_! …What  _was_ your inspiration, actually?”  
  
Harry thinks on this. He hadn’t considered it much last year when he was furiously sketching out all his designs but now that he does, he can’t help but recognize what’s been staring him in the face for years.  
  
“Malfoy,” he says, and is startled by the way his voice catches in his throat.  
  
Dennis laughs again, his quill automatically jotting it down. “Can’t say I blame you, Harry. I swear I thought for a minute he had a  _hard-on_  during the loungewear. Can you believe it? Ha! He must  _really_ love wearing your clothes.”  
  
It’s only after Harry’s disentangled himself from the throng of reporters that he realizes what a huge fucking blunder he’s just made. Dennis thinks it’s all in jest, but he’ll probably print it anyway, and then—fuck. The entire wizarding world will know that every moment of inspiration he’s ever had has been because of Malfoy’s ankles or hipbones or biceps.  
  
Or maybe they’ll think it’s a joke. Who knows, really.  
  
Harry pushes through the crowd, looking for a particularly blond head of hair. He finds Malfoy by the bar, stuffing his face with crudités. He glances up as Harry approaches, an olive oil-drizzled carrot stick half in his mouth. He crunches down as his eyes scan from Harry’s face to his groin and back up again. He swallows, smirks.  
  
“Hello, twat. Hasn’t anyone told you that it’s gauche to wear hats indoors?”  
  
“I decide what’s gauche these days,” Harry says.  
  
Malfoy bites his lip, smirking, and turns back to his plate of food. “Or maybe we’re all just humouring you,” he says, selecting a cherry tomato. He bites, chews, and eyes Harry again. “Have you thought of that?”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says.  
  
He takes the barstool next to Malfoy’s and steals one of his zucchini slices. There’s, like, fourteen different sauces to choose from; he jabs it randomly around until the end of the zucchini is sufficiently covered in  _something_ , and sticks it in his mouth. Malfoy watches this but doesn’t seem inclined to bitch about it. His eyes are half-lidded and sultry and Harry would like nothing better than to stick his tongue down Malfoy’s throat, but it’s been about ten hours since he’s had a chance to eat, and probably twelve for Malfoy, so he ignores the urge for now.  
  
Instead, he leans into Malfoy’s personal space, bracing his hand on the bar top right next to Malfoy’s. “Is that how you felt before Rehearsal yesterday when I let you come on my face? That I was humouring you?”  
  
To his infinite pleasure and surprise, Malfoy flushes. His pupils blow wide, and he licks his bottom lip. “No,” he says. “I knew you wanted it.”  
  
“You could tell all that from the way I sew up your hem?”  
  
“I could tell from the way you design all your clothes to fit  _me_ ,” Malfoy replies.  
  
Harry’s breath hitches. Even Malfoy knows he’s the inspiration. “Do you think I’ve anything else that might fit you?” Harry asks, and immediately hates himself for mixing sartorial jokes with anal sex jokes. It’s done, though. Live and learn.  
  
Malfoy huffs out a tiny little laugh but his eyes are sparkling. He pushes his plate of veg away, standing from the stool. Harry follows suit, not really sure what’s going on but unwilling to let Malfoy get away tonight. Harry needs to be claimed. The urge to be with Malfoy overwhelming and instinctual. It leaves him lightheaded and randy as fuck.  
  
“Where are you going?” he asks.  
  
Malfoy dabs at his mouth with a serviette, eyebrow lifted. It’s amazing how he can be so good at having so many expressions around Harry and absolutely zero on the catwalk.  
  
“To my hotel room, obviously.” He takes a few steps, looks back over his shoulder with that damned eyebrow cocked. “Are you coming or not? Do I have to model your clothing to get you interested in taking it off me?” As if Harry needs the temptation, Malfoy opens his over-cloak and shows Harry what’s underneath. White waistcoat, silver buttons. White trousers hanging on by a prayer. It’s the suit Harry’s designed for him to model—he must have sneaked it out after the show.  
  
Harry quickly thinks of Ron and Hermione having sex before he comes in his pants.  
  
And then he rushes after Malfoy—because how could he not?  
  
They take the stairs up to the third storey. Malfoy’s hips sway as he walks, no doubt habit by now from his years of modelling Harry’s often-androgynous clothing. Harry’s eyes stay fixed on his arse. Between storeys two and three, he identifies twelve different things he’d like to do to that arse, beginning with shoving his tongue in it and ending with things that include his cock, a bucket-load of come, and twelve hours straight.  
  
Malfoy is even graceful unlocking a door. Harry is amazed. He would be fumbling around, fingers trembling, legs shaking—but no, Malfoy is slick and suave and other adjectives that Harry’s forgotten in the haze of lust brought on by Veela hormones.  
  
Harry slips in the door behind Malfoy and immediately presses him back against it, attacking his mouth with feverish desire. Malfoy gasps. Harry takes the opening to slide his tongue inside. He would melt into Malfoy if his body would cooperate. Even this first taste of him is more than Harry can bear. His fingers curl against Malfoy’s shoulders, the feel of soft angora wool both familiar and unnatural to him. He’s longed to touch Malfoy so long that he’d already half-imagined what it would feel like. It turns out that it’s nothing at all like he expected because Malfoy is wearing a cloak from Harry’s first autumn/winter collection. He hadn’t even noticed it in the strange light of the bar, but he’d know the feel of those stitches anywhere.  
  
_Everything_ Malfoy’s wearing is something Harry made. It makes Harry’s heart somersault.  
  
He grips Malfoy’s shoulder tightly, fingers curling into the wool, and he just—drapes himself onto Malfoy like a quality cashmere. Their mouths are barely touching. Harry feels Malfoy’s warm breath against his lips and he breathes it in.  _Mate_ , he thinks. And,  _Mine_. He shuts his eyes tightly, shivering all over.  
  
Malfoy’s fingers curl around his sides, drawing him impossibly closer. Harry makes a low sound in his throat, a result of a decade of longing and desire and the realization that they could’ve had this ages ago and he doesn’t know why Malfoy never claimed him before. Harry  _wants_ fiercely and now that it’s within his reach, he can’t stop trembling.  
  
He realizes his breathing’s not going to come under control again so he kisses Malfoy anyway, and Malfoy arches into him, his lips warm and yielding beneath Harry’s own. His erection is hot as Incendio against Harry’s thigh.  
  
“Bed, Potter,” Malfoy breathes against his lips.  
  
He pushes at Harry’s shoulders and Harry stumbles backwards like a new foal. The mattress hits the backs of his knees and he lets himself fall. Malfoy’s standing above him, highlighted by the soft glow of the waning moon outside the hotel window. He reaches up to push his hair out of his eyes. He’s washed out all the potions Lavender and Pansy glued it in place with, and it looks soft and delicate and heartbreakingly beautiful.  
  
“I didn’t think I’d ever have you in this position,” Malfoy says, eyebrows raised. “Elusive Harry Potter. So detached and unapproachable.”  
  
Harry pushes himself up onto his elbows. He shakes his fringe out of his eyes. He’s lost his hat somewhere between the bar and here and isn’t even arsed about it, even though it’s his favourite ivy cap.  
  
“You could’ve had me anytime,” he says, startled. “It’s fate, isn’t it?”  
  
Harry’s a big believer in fate. He’s not happy about that fact, but it’s true.  
  
Malfoy’s forehead furrows a bit before he smooths it out. “Is it?” he says. He steps closer, one knee settles beside Harry’s thigh on the bed.  
  
Harry doesn’t know much about Veelas, admittedly, but he’d always got that impression, so he nods. “Yeah.”  
  
Malfoy’s smile is sudden and devastatingly real. The cloak drops to the floor and he falls forward on the bed, hands braced on either side of Harry’s face. He dips his head and kisses Harry again, softly this time, lingeringly.  
  
Harry gasps. He arches up, desperate for more contact, and the movement ignites something in Malfoy that has him sitting up, scrambling to undo all of Harry’s buttons. Harry hates that he wore an Oxford today when he could’ve already been out of a t-shirt. He’s so familiar with the buttons of Malfoy’s waistcoat, however, that he’s got it open in no time. He runs his palms over Malfoy’s stomach and finds it inhumanly hot to the touch.  
  
Malfoy throws his head back, gasping for breath. His chest is flushed; the white speckles from the show glimmer, making his skin look ethereal and almost translucent. Harry traces his fingers over as many as he can reach and delights in the way Malfoy’s muscles clench in their wake.  
  
“Potter,” Malfoy says. His breath stutters. He looks down, meeting Harry’s eyes. “Harry.”  
  
Harry doesn’t know which one he likes hearing more but there’s something special, something intimate, in the way no one calls him ‘Potter’ but Malfoy. “You’re the only person who remembers I have a last name,” he says.  
  
And Malfoy seems pleased by this. He falls forward again, and their bare chests press together hot and damp. He slides his fingers into Harry’s hair and drags his tongue along Harry’s jaw. “Potter,” he whispers.  
  
Harry whines. “ _Yes_.”  
  
He feels Malfoy grin against his skin. Harry slides his hands down Malfoy’s naked back to his trousers. He doesn’t even need to look to get these undone in seconds flat. He has them pushed down Malfoy’s slim hips in even less time. Malfoy moves to kick them off and Harry takes his moment of distraction to flip him on his back. He starts at Malfoy’s ankles (the inspiration for Spring 2003) and kisses his way up his legs, letting Malfoy’s erection brush against his cheek as he laves his tongue against each hipbone in turn (Summer 2004).  
  
Harry undoes his own trousers and slips them off as he’s kissing along that valley of muscle angling down from his torso to his cock. Malfoy whimpers, arching up, and there’s a trail of pre-come across Harry’s face, reminding him of the exquisite feeling of Malfoy coming on him yesterday. He gasps, closing his eyes as he rides out the shudders that memory gives him. He drops to his knees before the bed and takes Malfoy into his mouth in one go.  
  
“Fuck!” Malfoy gasps.  
  
Harry sucks him all the way down. Merlin, he even  _tastes_ like his Mate. Malfoy moves up onto his elbows to watch. Harry glances up, pauses. Malfoy’s face is flushed; his mouth is parted; his lips are slick. He looks utterly debauched. Just-fucked. Ready-to-fuck. All of the above. Harry groans at the sight; the vibrations make Malfoy toss his head back, moaning.  
  
Harry can’t take it anymore; he  _needs_ to be Mated with his Veela. He crawls back onto the bed, Summons his wand and does his best to cast a lubricating charm. It’s difficult; his magic always goes wonky when he’s wound up, and he’s rarely been as utterly undone as Malfoy is making him right now. Harry succeeds on the second attempt and then his hand is coated in oil.  
  
“Which way?” Malfoy asks, eyeing the slick fluid covering Harry’s fingers.  
  
Harry bites his lip, considers. After tonight, they can do whatever, but now, the first time, Harry wants to be  _claimed_.  
  
In answer, he kneels up and reaches behind himself, sliding his slick fingers up and down his cleft, circling his hole. Malfoy inhales sharply, unable to see exactly what his fingers are doing but all too aware of what’s happening. Harry leans forward, bracing one hand by Malfoy’s shoulder as he works his arse with the other. When he’s good and slicked up, he presses a finger inside, biting his lip at the sensation of intrusion and  _fuck_ , how long it’s been since he’s felt it. He hasn’t trusted another wizard enough to have sex with them after that first expose two months after he launched his fashion house, and he gave up on Muggles years ago.  
  
He trusts Malfoy, though—trusts him with this and a thousand other things.  
  
Malfoy groans. Harry manages a breathless smile as he works in a second finger. Suddenly, he’s flipped onto his back and Malfoy’s grasping his hand, scooping up all the slick oil there and coating his own fingers. He wastes no time pressing two into Harry.  
  
Harry arches, groaning. “Christ, Malfoy.”  
  
Malfoy bends to lick his neck. His tongue swipes slowly up then down again, completely animalistic. A third finger enters Harry and there’s that trembling again. He’s as tense as a phoenix on Burning Day and just as hot. Malfoy’s fingers stretch him until he’s nothing but a vaguely human-shaped collection of rushing blood and erotic thoughts. Finally, Malfoy withdraws his fingers. He slicks up his cock again or maybe he’s just playing with himself; it’s hard to tell.  
  
Harry reaches out to grab his shoulders and drag him in. “Come on, fuck me,” he says and kisses him. “Claim me,” he says when they break apart.  
  
Malfoy’s eyes shutter; he bites his lip. “You want it,” he says. It comes out as a groan.  
  
Harry can only moan because, god, yes he does.  
  
“All you think about is my cock,” Malfoy continues, teasing it at Harry’s hole. “I see you, don’t think I don’t see you. You’ve been  _accidentally_  brushing your fingers over it for years. Amazing how the only time  _Harry_  ever cocks up an inseam is when it’s by  _my_  cock.”  
  
“Oh, god,” Harry says. “Please.”  
  
“Say it’s true,” Malfoy instructs. He presses the blunt head of his cock against Harry’s hole and Harry opens his legs wider in encouragement. “Say it. Tell me the truth.”  
  
“I can’t ever stop thinking about your cock and your arse and your mouth and, fuck, just  _you_ ,” Harry admits breathlessly. “It’s—it’s unprofessional.”  
  
“You do it anyway,” says Malfoy, still circling the head of his cock around Harry’s hole. “ _Very_  unprofessional.”  
  
“I do,” Harry admits. He reaches down and pulls at his prick a few times, unable to help himself even if he wanted to. Malfoy bats his hand away. “ _Please_ ,” says Harry.  
  
Malfoy pushes in and the burn of it is slow and aching, as if this is exactly what Harry’s body was made for, only it needs to be reminded.  
  
Malfoy pushes himself in balls deep. It’s that moment when the exhilaration of ‘Is this going to happen?’ changes to ‘This is happening’ and it’s everything Harry imagined. He’s on the edge of some precipice, being held there by the mix of pleasure and pain he’s feeling. He lifts his knees, tossing one leg around Malfoy’s thighs to encircle him and claim him as much as he’s being claimed himself.  
  
Malfoy seems content to stay where he is, which Harry can’t have. He thrusts his hips up, encouraging.  
  
“God, Merlin,  _fuck_ ,” Malfoy gasps.  
  
He snaps his hips down and Harry arches. Malfoy’s looking at him with feral eyes and Harry knows he’s never looked at anyone quite like this, like they’re meaningful and  _Mate_. Because only Harry’s that, only Harry can fill this feral  _need_  Malfoy’s got in his blood. Harry squeezes around Malfoy’s cock even as he lifts his hips, trying to work him in deeper.  
  
“Potter, you kinky slut,” Malfoy says, taking up an achingly slow thrust. “If I’d known you’d get a hard-on for my erection in your clothes, I would’ve taken a picture of myself every Friday night for you.”  
  
Harry whines. Malfoy’s prick is dragging so, so slowly over his prostate. “You only wear  _my_ clothes, don’t you?”  
  
“Yeah.” Malfoy’s reply is punctuated by a hard thrust that sends a spark of oh-fuck-god-yes pleasure through Harry’s entire body. It’s never been so good like this. Never felt so right, so fucking  _fated_. “Malfoys only wear the best.”  
  
And just like that, Harry comes. He hadn’t even known he was close, hadn’t even got a chance to take more than a few cursory pulls at his cock, but there it is—he’s coming so hard his body curls, his arse clenching down around Malfoy’s cock, and his fingers digging into his biceps. Fuck, he hadn’t realized what a turn on it would be to hear Malfoy talk about his fucking clothing.  
  
“Oh, you  _like_ that,” Malfoy says, speeding up his thrusts. He’s got a wicked gleam in his eye as he reaches up to drag his fingers through the come on Harry’s belly. Harry lets him fuck him. He’d thought Malfoy might finish quickly after that, but no, it seems he’s planning to take his time. By the time his thrusts start becoming erratic, Harry’s half-hard again and he notices it.  
  
Malfoy smirks. His come-y hand encircles Harry’s cock and pulls. It’s almost too much, almost over-sensitive, but he’s adjusted his thrusts and he’s fucking against Harry’s prostate again and that helps to offset it. Helps enough that the sensitivity begins to change to the need to come  _again_ and Harry could lay here and take this all night.  
  
“Want to come again?”  
  
“ _Yes_ ,” Harry says, screwing his eyes up tight.  
  
God, if he’d known that Veelas could make you come twice in the span of ten minutes, Harry would have Mated with one years ago. Would’ve Mated with Malfoy years ago at least. What was the point of a refractory period, anyway?  
  
That doesn’t mean that he actually expected it to happen, though. When it starts to feel amazing again, it catches him by surprise, so the loud, slutty whine he makes can’t be held against him.  
  
“That’s it,” Malfoy pants, “Come on, give it to me. If you come on me now, it’ll be a trend by morning.”  
  
Harry is startled into a laugh, but then Malfoy’s angle changes and  _God_. His vision flares, then narrows down, black seeping in from all edges. Malfoy fucks him hard, each thrust hitting mercilessly against his prostate. He jerks Harry’s cock in rhythm and it’s all too much—Harry comes.  _Hard_.  
  
Thick, white ropes of spunk hit Malfoy’s chest and Harry, absurdly, gets a brief flash of inspiration for next year’s summer line. Abstracted white stripes. Very nautical. He doesn’t have time to consider it in further detail before Malfoy’s throwing his head back screaming as he empties his cock inside Harry.  
  
“Do you realize,” Malfoy says as he pulls out, “that you come when I talk dirty to you about fashion?”  
  
Harry had not realized that. He makes a face, then throws one arm over his eyes as he struggles to catch his breath. Merlin fuck, that had been hot. “We all have our idiosyncrasies,” he says.  
  
Malfoy snorts. His face is shiny with sweat and Harry thinks that will definitely be a part of the summer line, too. “ _You_  have idiosyncrasies.”  
  
Harry moves his arm enough to peer at Malfoy through one heavy-lidded eye. “You’re a  _Veela_. That’s like the biggest idiosyncrasy of all.”  
  
Malfoy rolls his eyes. “Potter, you have no idea what that word means, do you?” He stretches, yawning, and then turns to throw one leg over Harry’s own. He closes his eyes. Harry is mesmerized.  
  
“And anyway,” Malfoy continues, “What’s the point of being a Veela if it doesn’t come with any of the benefits? No wandless magic, no fireballs, no allure. I can’t even change into one of those beastly half-birds—not that I’d want to, but still. It’s the principle of the matter.”  
  
Harry’s eyes, which had begun drifting shut, fly open. “What do you mean  _no allure_?”  
  
Malfoy yawns again before snuggling deeper into Harry’s warm spot. “Male Veelas don’t have allure, Potter,” he says, and the ‘Obviously’ is understood. “We have to  _work_ for our shags. My father always thought it was to prevent quality women from being tricked into breeding with a subpar wizard. Probably true. Who cares? Night, Potter.”  
  
Malfoy drifts off to sleep right away, obviously one of those blokes who can shag and nap without a second thought, but Harry remains  _very_ awake. What the fuck has been making him fall all over himself for Malfoy if he hasn’t got any allure?  
  
  


-x-

  
  
The next morning, Harry wakes up to the sound of Malfoy berating the housekeeping elf for not bringing hot enough towels and the vague realization that Malfoy is a cuddler. He pulls himself up on one elbow, blinking blearily at the scene before him. The housekeeping elf has one hand on her hip and both eyes narrowed.  
  
“Margorie does not work for Mr Malfoy  _or_ Harry,” she says and Harry takes a moment to reflect on the fact that his last name is so far forgotten that even house-elves are calling him Harry. “Marjorie works for Hotel Hautelle and we does not allow  _Incendio_ charms in the rooms!”  
  
Malfoy throws his arms up in the air. In the process, he loses his sheet, which Harry belatedly realizes was the only thing keeping him decent. He Summons his glasses and quickly slips them on, having no intentions whatsoever of missing a free show. His vision clears and he sees Malfoy’s completely nude body for the first time in the light of day. No wonder it’s inspired so many collections. It’s perfect.  _Beyond_ perfect. Perfect is imperfect compared to Draco Malfoy.  
  
Malfoy turns suddenly, noticing Harry’s now awake. His morning erection is still in evidence. The scowl on his face does nothing to ruin the effect. “Oh good, you’re awake. Lunch? I intend to catch the McQueen show this afternoon if you want to come with. I promised Pansy I’d report back on the wedding robes.”  
  
Harry yawns. He’s had a lot of time to think about what he’s going to say this morning—a lot of time to consider the phrasing and word choice and voice modulation—and yet, he still chooses to go with: “Are we Mated now that you’ve fucked me?”  
  
Malfoy whips back around, eyes wide. “Sorry?”  
  
Harry’s bravado starts to deflate. He opens his mouth but nothing of consequence wants to come out.  
  
“Mated?” Malfoy repeats. He frowns, seems to consider it. “Do you want to be?”  
  
Ah, there’s that bravado again. Direct questions are much easier. “A bit, yeah,” Harry says. “I’m made for y—I mean  _mad_ for you. I thought you were using allure on me, but then you said you didn’t have any so I reckoned that must mean we’re definitely Mates—if I go wild for you without even allure. And anyway, who else would be your Mate if not me?”  
  
A slow smirk spreads across Malfoy’s face. He struts back over to the bed and crawls up on it, pushing Harry back down with a palm on his chest. He looms over Harry, that beastly little smirk still playing about his lips.  
  
“You can be my Mate,” he says. “If you’re up for it, anyway.”  
  
“I’m up for it!” Harry says indignantly.  
  
“Of course you are,” Malfoy says. His fingers ghost down Harry’s chest, making his skin bloom with sensation. He wants to arch into the touch but holds himself back. “But you should know, Veelas Mate for life.”  
  
Harry swallows. “I know. Ron’s brother’s married to one.”  
  
This seems to amuse Malfoy, but all he says is, “Veelas require lots of sex and entire wardrobes designed just for them.”  
  
“Done,” says Harry, who considers this to be a very good deal indeed. He arcs his arm out, gesturing somewhere across the room where his knapsack and the portfolios inside it are. “See my oeuvre.”  
  
Malfoy huffs out a little laugh. “I always rather thought your clothes suited me very well.”  
  
Harry rolls his eyes. “Duh.” He leans up, pressing his lips to Malfoy’s. Now that they’re Mates, Harry figures they should get started on the other half of Malfoy’s requirements. “Want to fuck?”  
  
Malfoy groans against his mouth. He straddles Harry’s waist, grinding down. “If I tell you you’re the only designer I wear, would it make you come in my arse?”  
  
“ _Fuck_! Probably,” Harry says, scrabbling for his wand so he can coat his fingers with charmed lube. It’s turning out to be a very good morning indeed.  
  
  


-x-

  
  
Somehow, Harry manages to convince Malfoy to come to lunch with him, Ron, and Hermione. This agreement is reached, incidentally, only after Harry agrees to sweet-talk Sarah Burton into a last minute invite to the McQueen show for Pansy.  
  
Harry doesn’t much care how it happened, only that it has.  
  
That is how he and Malfoy are found sitting across from Ron and Hermione at Le Persil Étuvé. Hermione is wearing plum eye shadow and looking phenomenal, which isn’t fair. Harry smiles placidly at his friends, who are, after startled greetings and three minutes spent staring fixedly at their menus, now staring at him and Malfoy instead.  
  
Ron is the first to speak. He looks to Harry, eyes narrowed in thought, and says, “Is he vegan?”  
  
“No,” says Malfoy, which is not an answer that Harry expects will go over well.  
  
And indeed eyes narrow all around. Hermione looks jealous more than anything else, and Harry can’t blame her: he vividly recalls the taste of crème brûlée. Sometimes he  _dreams_ of dairy and eggs.  
  
“Is he at least vegetarian?” Ron asks then.  
  
“Vegetarian, yes,” Malfoy says, and Harry lets out a sigh of relief. Ron nods reluctantly. It seems he’s realized his misstep with encouraging Harry to bugger and/or be buggered by Malfoy. But at least Malfoy’s vegetarian.  
  
The waiter approaches and stares boredly at them. Ron says, “Can I get the vegan bouillabaisse—but not the tofu. I don’t do soy. Can you do that with seitan instead?”  
  
The waiter grimaces as he writes this down.  
  
Hermione clears her throat quickly. “Pêche au vin, please.”  
  
Then Malfoy says, “Mushroom and parmesan soup with chive crème fraîche,” and Harry and Hermione both groan aloud. Fuck that sounds good.  _Dairy_ , Harry thinks desperately. What he wouldn’t do for some dairy.  
  
For the first time, Harry regrets Mating with Malfoy. He’s going to have to be around delicious creams and cheeses and custards for the rest of his rotten life.  
  
It’s finally Harry’s turn, and he says, “Vegan zucchini tart,” but it doesn’t sound nearly as good now as it had when he read it on the menu.  
  
The bread arrives, which is apparently something that Ron and Malfoy can bond over because they begin to discuss the many and varied qualities of carbs in general and French sourdough in particular.  
  
"Malfoy," says Harry, when it’s gone on long enough. Malfoy turns to him. "Did you smell anything in the Amortentia?"  
  
"I knew it!" Hermione says.  
  
Malfoy smirks. “Linen and tweed."  
  
"Tweed?" Ron asks, nose scrunched. “Who would smell tweed? You fashion people are so weird.”  
  
Harry blushes, turning back to the bread that he’s mostly just torn up into pieces instead of eating. He hooks his foot into the strap of his linen knapsack. He should really go back to that bar and see if anyone’s found his hat.  
  
Ron starts in on embarrassing stories of Harry, which is fine—Harry would rather they get them out of the way now, and mostly they’re harmless ones about him refusing to leave the flat without his hat on and that one time he tried to design a womenswear line.  
  
Hermione’s foot catches against Harry’s own, and he looks over from his perusal of the tablecloth to find her fighting a smile. She leans into his shoulder and whispers, “Ron says you’re Malfoy’s Mate.”  
  
“Yeah,” Harry says.  
  
He knows that the Mating thing isn’t  _real_. Not in a magical sense, anyway. But it’s real to him—to  _them_ , he thinks.  
  
He knows what’s coming: rational Hermione being rational.  
  
But it doesn’t. What she says instead is, “I’m happy for you, Harry. I’ve watched Malfoy model your clothes for seven years, and he’s never looked at anyone the way he looks at you when you come out at the end of every show.”  
  
Harry’s heart bursts in his chest then. He’s can’t even begin to explain the gratitude and love he feels for her when she abandons her need for facts and rationality in deference to what a mess he is for Draco Malfoy.  
  
“Yeah?” he says. He’s always turned away from the models then. He’s never seen it.  
  
“Yeah,” Hermione says. She nods her head across from them and Harry follows her gaze. Ron and Malfoy are  _sniggering_. Harry has no idea what it’s about, but they’re laughing,  _together_ , and it’s about Harry doing something silly and not about one of them falling down a flight of stairs and breaking his neck.  
  
“You didn’t kill him?” Malfoy asks, smirking, and Harry groans.  _Of course_  Ronnie would come up in conversation. Malfoy looks extremely pleased with Ron right now and Harry wants to shag him all over again for getting on with his  _other_ life-mate.  
  
Ron shakes his head. “Nah. She’s a cool Crup. Never pisses on the couch or anything, and besides, Harry’d go mad without her around, which is basically what he’d do without me, so it seemed fair.”  
  
Their food comes then. Harry’s zucchini tart is actually pretty bloody amazing so the bitter jealousy of Malfoy’s parmesan cheese disappears in short order. Malfoy catches his free hand beneath the table and grins at him around a spoon of mushroom soup. He's got a little crème fraîche on his lip that Harry would be all over if Ron weren't at the table.  
  
Malfoy doesn’t need to be a Veela to have allure over Harry, but Harry will keep pretending that he does, because the only other option is that Harry’s been in love with him for seven years all on his own. It’s like Amortentia whenever he’s around, and Harry is happy to breathe it in.  
  


**The End.**

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the 2014 Do Me Veela fest. Originally posted here: http://do-me-veela.livejournal.com/96163.html. Written to **capitu's** prompt: _Harry is sure Draco is a Veela because he goes a lot crazy whenever Draco is around. But then it turns Draco is really a Veela, only males don't possess any allure, so it's just Harry being crazy about Draco all on his own._
> 
> FOLLOW ME ON TUMBLR for snippets, what I'm working on next, and to ask me anything :) [lol-zeitgeistic on Tumblr](http://lol-zeitgeistic.tumblr.com/)


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